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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395441">Me &amp; My Arrow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/pseuds/hotot'>hotot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Aromantic, Bloodplay, Body Worship, Bondage, Erotic Arrows, F/M, Femdom, Forced Masturbation, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Polyamorous Character, Scarification, Shaving, Strap-Ons, apparently archery is very sexy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:21:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395441</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/pseuds/hotot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden Blackwall and Inquisitor Adaar have a special sort of arrangement.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Female Adaar/Blackwall (Dragon Age), Female Adaar/Blackwall | Thom Rainier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Me &amp; My Arrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first and probably only DA fic and it is very dirty. Mind the tags. Was going through my old WIPs and got inspired to finish this because sometimes you need to have a giant warrior woman tie up a burly, hairy man and absolutely ruin him.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>The sound of laughter precedes her, as it always does. Sara’s laugh follows close behind, a taunting giggle juxtaposed with Teni’s low chuckle.</p><p>Blackwall shuffles out into the yard and leans against the barn, crossing his ankles and watching. Varric is there too, and the three of them have longbows.</p><p>“This is going to be humiliating,” Blackwall hears Varic say. “This thing is taller than I am.”</p><p>Teni glances over and Blackwall and shoots him a cocky grin. “I’m learning how to bow,” she announces.</p><p>The dwarf loops a wax bowstring over one end and bends the longbow easily to string it. Despite Varric’s grumbling, it looks like the storyteller can string a longbow, even if he always favors that monstrosity of a crossbow.</p><p>“You any good with a bow, Warden?” Varric asks in his lazy drawl.</p><p><em>No, </em>Blackwall wants to say, <em>I’m no good at all.</em></p><p>Instead, he pushes off the wall. “You’ll need some targets to shoot at,” he notes, and excuses himself back into the barn. More laughter follows as Sera makes a kissing noise, putting on another hand puppet show. Blackwall grumbles as he hefts a bale of hay in each hand. He freezes at the sound of unmistakable footsteps behind him.</p><p>Teni.</p><p>“Let me help you,” she says, and she presses up behind him, warm and smelling of hot summers, cardamom, and temptation. Blackwall wets his lips, mouth going dry as her hands ghost down his back and he breathes her name<em>, </em>fighting the urge to call her <em>m’lady.</em></p><p><em>“I’m a giant, horned woman canvased with scars. I’ve got a foul fuckin’ mouth and a dirty, dirty mind. I’m no lady,” </em>she’d said the night he’d come to her the first time, up in her tower room, but he had breathed it over and over again in his head as he worshiped her, on his knees between her thighs, her hands in his hair, at his throat, his wrists.</p><p>He turns in her grip and stares up, and up into those eyes. Are they touched with more green than before? He always asks himself that. Wonders if the magic of the mark in her hand is seeping into her blood.</p><p>The scars around her mouth and along her jaw are stark white against the blue dusk of her skin. One corner of her mouth drags down just slightly from the pull of them. She never says, but Blackwall recognizes the marks a hard and lonely life leave on a person.</p><p>She is Vashoth. The Bull was clear on that point when he’d gotten tossed one night with Blackwall and Sera, laid down the non-negotiable truth that Teni was <em>not a Qunari</em>. She was not even Tal Vashoth, she was simply Vashoth and not so damn different from anyone Other, what with her <em>individuality, </em>her <em>desires. </em>Blackwall couldn’t decide if Bull sounded amused or envious. But his grin brimmed with lust as he’d said <em>desires.</em></p><p>Vashoth. Born outside the Qun. Never being part of something means you can’t really leave it. Blackwall can relate in some ways. Never parking of the Warden’s Joining means he hasn’t really abdicated his duty as a shield against the Darkspawn threat. No outsider, just a fraud.</p><p>Though for him it is a choice he keeps guise, not a circumstance of his birth. So perhaps not so alike as he wishes. No balm for his sins there.</p><p>He tilts his head back, hand going to her neck and he kisses her. Her lips are wine-dark and taste like licorice. She is forever nibbling on fennel seeds.</p><p>He drops the hay bales and Teni has him against the wall in a moment. His hands graze her bare sides—damn that rope-and-band “shirt” she wears, no better than smalls. The scandal of the age, the Herald of Andraste going around like that. Her knee finds its way between his legs and he grinds against her thigh in a huff. Already hard and getting harder, his cock twitching as she grazes her teeth along his neck.</p><p>“You’re always here just when I need you,” she whispers. “So very helpful.” The heat of her breath on his ear sends a solar burst of need up his spine. Thank the Maker for beards for hiding a blush, he thinks, not for the first time, his face going ruddy. And armor that falls nearly to his knees. It can’t do for the noble Warden to wander around with an erection hard as stone.</p><p>“Alas I must go. I’ve got target practice, and Varric and Sera are both wont to gossip.” “You started it, <em>m’Lady</em>,” he rumbles.</p><p>“You will suffer later for sassing your Inquisitor, my dear Warden,” she says. She grabs his ass, and captures his mouth again and then like a warm breeze, is gone, laughing as she grabs the two abandoned bales of hay and hauls them outside. He follows more slowly with another pair, his groin painfully tight.</p><p>Varric grins at him, a lazy grin that Blackwall doesn't like one bit, but Sera bosses Teni around, telling her how to place the bales just so, how to string a bow, how to take a shooting stance. Sera thoroughly enjoys having some power over the Inquisitor, being in charge for a bit. Or maybe Sera just likes to feel like others care about what she has to say, like her words can change the world.</p><p>Blackwall can't imagine telling Teni a single thing. He is her servant, bound utterly to her will. He has nothing to teach her.</p><p>“Here, Blackwall!” the Herald of Andraste calls out, her long, bare arms flexing with iron muscle as she strings the bow. “Set the last target ” And dutiful as a hound he stacks the last bales to make the final target before moving out of the way as the three archers lined up.</p><p>“There’s a place you go when you’re shooting,” Varric was saying. “It’s different for everyone. For Sera. I see her dance, an expression of joy flying from her fingers to sew chaos among those who would hold her and her Jennies down.”</p><p>The storyteller pauses, bowing a little as Sera claps. “For me, it’s a love song. and let Bianca take care of the melody. Do you go to a place when you wield your sword, Inquisitor?”</p><p>Teni nods slowly. “A forge,” she says. “Each form is a draw and puff of the bellows, harnessing fire.”</p><p>Varric nods approvingly. “With the bow, think of each draw as a candle flame. Too much air or too little air snuffs it out. You must tend the flame, but carefully.”</p><p>“You should be a poet, Varric.” Teni listens to him with a tenderness Blackwall finds unnerving, coming from someone so strong.</p><p>Varric shrugs his granite slab shoulders. “I’ve penned a few verses that might make even <em>you </em>blush. I’d let you borrow them, but I think our Seeker has the folio now…Maybe you can share...”</p><p>Teni and Sera laugh nearly in unison, and Sera gives Teni’s ass a smack. Blackwall’s cock gives another throb, this time mixed with jealousy. He knows he’s not the only one Teni has taken to her bed—they don’t speak of the others, other than to make it clear she does not feel romantic attachment. She is interested in sex as an expression of pleasure, a place to explore power, and deepen friendships through “erotic trust exercises.” Exercises indeed. She seems to be making her way through every eligible companion in her inner circle. Bull and Sera are among her conquests—and she has designs on Cassandra that are obvious to everyone but the seeker herself…</p><p>He pulls his thoughts away, raking her body with his eyes as target practice begins. It means little to him, really, that she gives herself so freely. Blackwall is no eligible bachelor. Lately his thoughts, when not occupied with the sublime humiliation that stems from his private liaisons with the Inquisitor, stray to Val Royeaux and the relief of justice.</p><p>Tani pulls the bow taught, and her body goes taught with it.</p><p>“Breathe, you aren’t a fish!” Sera chastises.</p><p>The arrow flies, missing the target and embedding itself in a tree beyond. Teni laughs and tries again. He can see her focus all of her attention on the arrow, the tip wavering as she finds the right spot, and it flies true. Strikes the hay bale but not the bulls-eye that Sera had set up—a rude cartoon drawing of Corypheus wearing a diaper on his head.</p><p>She tries again, and for a moment it seems a hush falls over the barnyard as she draws the bow. Blackwall almost feels the draw of her breath as if she were against his ear. She exhales as if blowing out a candle, and the arrow flies true, buried half way up the shaft and straight through the cartoon villain’s diaper-swaddled head.</p><p>Sera whoops with glee.</p><p>“You’re a natural! Keep it up and we’ll have you ditch that ugly broadsword in no time.” Verric grins and goes to collect the arrow. “Keep this as a trophy. First arrow you use to hit bulls-eye is a lucky one.”</p><p>“You’re so full of shit,” she laughs.</p><p>She looks over at Blackwall, capturing his gaze like she is charming a snake, and twirls the arrow in her fingers. “Be a dear and go get the one from the tree?”</p><p>He bows. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”</p><p>When he tries to pull it free, it’s buried so deep he has to snap it instead.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Inquisitor?” He knocks gently at the banded door.</p><p>“Enter,” she says, military crisp.</p><p>Dusk drapes the room in a smokey light, the mountains that cradle Skyhold bathed in blue and pink.</p><p>Teni stands at the door to the balcony, wearing a satin robe that flows to the floor. Belted at the waist with more of that red rope, it falls open to bare more of her chest than it hides, and reveals her legs up to mid thigh.</p><p>She holds an arrow in one hand, the tip catching the light and fletched with stiff yellow feathers. In her other hand, she holds an apple, the skin of it bright and gleaming. He shivers, awestruck. She looks like an avatar of the moon, leader of the wild hunt, with horns swept back and curling inwards, silver hair loose from its braid and flowing down her back.</p><p>Blackwall takes a step forward and bows. “You requested my company this evening, Mistress?”</p><p>She smiles at him. “I did indeed. I saw you watching me play with arrows this afternoon, looking rather hungry. I thought we’d treat ourselves.”</p><p>“What do you wish of me?”</p><p>“Come, make yourself more comfortable. You look very wound up in that jerkin. Take it off.”</p><p>His cock, already warm at the sight of her barely concealed, hardens instantly. And like his cock, his hands jump to obey. His belt clatters to the floor, and he steps closer to her as he unlaces his jerkin, letting it fall as well.</p><p>“Mistress…”</p><p>“Perhaps the arrow will bring us luck tonight…”</p><p>She steps forward and places the fletching-end of the arrow under his chin and tilts his head upwards. He looked up, and up into her eyes, definitely tinged with green, like Fadefire.</p><p>“Strip for me, my dear Warden,” she says, and a shudder runs through him as she takes a bite of the apple and taps his chin with the tip of the arrow so he feels a prick of pain.</p><p>His fingers are steady as he undresses, almost frighteningly so as he undoes laces here, buttons there, pulling off his boots and socks. He will not show his anticipation, or his fear. Later he will tremble. For now, he will stand proudly.</p><p>His trousers are tented, too tight to bear, and so he bears himself to her, grunting in relief as his cock springs free. Now naked before his goddess—Andraste forgive him, but was she not Her chosen?—he straightens amid his discarded clothing, cock standing proudly, shoulders square. Ready to serve.</p><p>“Beautiful,” she says. “Fucking sublime, you are.”</p><p>Heat rushes to his head and his cock. He sees it twitch, a bead of wetness gleaming at the tip, and he takes it in hand, stroking slowly, rubbing the tip to spread the wet so the head shines.</p><p>“It is you who is sublime. You look magnificent, Mistress.”</p><p>“May I mark you this evening?” She gestures to the arrow.</p><p>“Mark me.” he says. Hand tightening on his cock. His eyes fix on the arrow, remembering her focus when aiming it this afternoon. Yearning for her to bring that attention now to him, and only him. “And I beg you, leave a scar so it might bring me luck.”</p><p>She grins, and closes the distance between them. She had shaved his chest last night, tied him to a throne-like armchair and had him sit as still as a stone,submitting to a straight razor and her steady hand. Now she drags the tip of the arrow down from the stone of his throat to his navel, the arrow leaving a raised welt. Chest hairless just for this purpose.</p><p>“I cleaned and sharpened it just for you, my sweet Warden.” She drops the apple, and seizes his wrist, forcing him to release his cock. “But from here on, I say when you may touch yourself. And if you are very, very good. I may let you touch me.”</p><p>She kisses him fiercely, tongue forcing its way into his mouth and his senses flood. She tastes like summer fruit and cardamom. Then she abates, steps back and her hands go to the ropes lashed around her waist. He yearns to untie it for her, reach up and lavish her breasts, the peaked nipples he can see through the shining fabric, but he locks his hands at his side.</p><p>He will be good, and he will be rewarded in kind. Blackwall is a patient man.</p><p>She uncoils the rope, round and round and his cock grows harder, impossible as it seems, already aching for relief. He stifles a moan, and she looks up at him, grinning.</p><p>“Already so desperate? The day must have been difficult for you, thinking about all these ropes… Did you think about me?”</p><p>“Of course, Mistress. Of nothing else but you. And my duty to the Inquisition, as always.”</p><p>“So <em>very</em> dutiful. Did you gratify yourself this afternoon?”</p><p>Blackwall’s cock throbs again, twitching visibly. A reminded of how he had denied himself the pleasure, reveling in the discomfort ever since Tani had cornered him in the barn.</p><p>“No, Mistress. I await your pleasure.”</p><p>“So I see.” Her eyes linger on his cock for a moment and she smiles down at him, wide and hungry and beautiful, red ropes coiled in her hands. “Are you ready to begin?”</p><p>Knowing what is expected, he holds out his hands obediently and she positions him, binding his wrists, palms in. Next, a harness around his chest. She tugs and pulls, deft with the knot-work as she is with a blade. A long length of rope hangs from his chest, and she tugs gently, leading him to the massive bed that dominates the room.</p><p>She has a collection of rope coiled on the bed and swaying gently from the ceiling. Too there are implements of pleasure which send another quake through him; and implements of pain that sends a thrill down his spine. The set of wooden paddles he made himself.</p><p>The fall to silence as she examines him like he is made of marble and she is going to sculpt a masterpiece. He closes his eyes and leans into the sensation of restraint, soft hempen rope sliding over bare skin, then biting as it goes tight. Another harness around his hips, between his legs. Another, finer rope around his member, making his stones bulge and his cock ache. Still she does not touch him where it is most needed.</p><p>Occasionally her impossibly large body will press against him as she reaches her arms around, making him feel small, winding rope around and around, like a spider and her prey.</p><p>Opening his eyes, he finds his cock bound with rope and throbbing red, veins bulging with mountain pressure. She leans over him, as he looks over his body in fascination. She is an artist and rope and his body are her medium.</p><p>No in front of him, she opens her robe. Her breasts, high and taut with muscle, stand proudly at eye level. He dares a glance downwards to see the silver thatch between her thighs. She leans in to whisper in her ear, and an erect, dusky nipple brushes the tip of his cock, followed by a calloused thumb. He groans, the sound primeval. A cruel Mistress, she is.</p><p>His thoughts turn to blaspheme again, for she is indeed a goddess of the hunt, in her luminous robe, with her apple, and her arrow, and the hands of a hardened warrior.</p><p>And tonight, he is her prey.</p><p>“Kneel.”</p><p>Blackwall knows his duty, which is now his pleasure. He sinks to the mattress, thighs spread but careful not to let his hands touch his throbbing member. Not now that he is in rope, in her thrall. She lashes his thighs to his calves, viper-strike quick, and ties the leads to the bedpost on either side. To the harness around his chest and hips she attaches the hanging ropes, and he is suddenly half-weightless, tethered to earth by the bedposts and rising to the heavens from his chest. Elbows, now anchored to his waist. He can only move his head, and flex his arms at the elbows.</p><p>“Beautiful. Now we may begin. Wrap your hands around your cock. Pleasure yourself as you will, you require my permission to climax.”</p><p>He whimpers. His cock, impossibly hard, screams at him as he gingerly places it between his palms and the rope at his wrists.</p><p>She taps his chest with the arrow, then draws it down to leave a little slice of pain in its wake. She crosses that line with another, slowly working her way around him, paying special attention to his ass and his thighs, until she has made a full circle of his body and now knees before him on the bed. Her tongue follows each scratch, soothing the raw welts that burn just shy of shedding blood. Up his thighs, towards where he fondles his cock and stones with measured strokes and even pressure.</p><p>She kneels before him, a rare view where he must look down at her instead of up, and she begins to sketch lines of pain up his front, until he is etched in welts and gleaming with the wet of sweat and the trail of her tongue.</p><p>Her lips stop shy of his cock, breath teasing and he arches, straining against the rope to seek her mouth. She grins, her tongue darting out to lick the ruddy tip of his member, and then she is gone, working her way up his stomach, his chest. She thumbs his nipples, tracing them with the fetching of the arrow until they feel raw.</p><p>“You have been very good to let me play with you.” The praise comes with another reward. Finally, finally she presses against him, her wetness cool against the raging fever that she has stoked within him. She sinks low, pressing her sex against his hands still around his cock, and he feels her clitoris, the size of his thumb, engorged and throbbing. For a moment his vision goes white and he thinks he will fail her, feels a climax radiating through his thighs so he squeeze down on his cock, not daring to release the pressure or move until the feeling subsides.</p><p>“Good boy,” she murmurs, laughing, petting his hair, and commences this new torture, thrusting her slick sex back and forth over his hands and his cock. She fairly glides, dripping as she is, sliding easily as he presses his thumbs upward into her as much as he dares.</p><p>And thus seated on her throne, she leans back to look him over.</p><p>“Where would you like me to mark you, Warden?”</p><p>Blackwall closes his eyes, thinks of his bare chest and how he would like to carry this moment for the rest of his life. “Down my center, mistress, from throat to sternum. To remind me of the perfect balance and clear direction of an arrow.”</p><p>“Not over your heart?”</p><p>“No mistress. The marks you leave on my heart will be known only to me.”</p><p>“Sweet Warden,” she whispers, “then it is as we agreed.”</p><p>She seizes the mane of hair, pulling him back so he bobs in his rope web, and then takes the arrow by the head. With the delicate pressure of a surgeon, pricks his skin just below the hollow of his throat. The arrowhead drags down and he knows she’s sharpened it to a razor point because the pain takes a moment to bloom in its wake. He holds stock still in her embrace, made of marble as his cock throbs in time with his racing heart. As the pain radiates in exquisite waves, she stops at the base of his breastbone and returns to his throat.</p><p>Carefully, with an intent of focus reserved only for creating fine fine art or victory on the battlefield, she draws two more lines below his throat, crossing the first.</p><p>And then the same on his sternum, small line after small line like an etching, fetching him.</p><p>Then she withdrew, her sex sliding off his bound hands and cock, leaving only the pain and his trembling.</p><p>“Now you’re lucky.”</p><p>He looks down to see blood running down his chest, dripping gently onto the russet bedspread in little beads. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes and he smiles, laughing, weightless and free of his lies and sins for just a moment.</p><p>“True as an arrow, for you, mistress.”</p><p>She sighs happily, running a finger along the blood trails that flow below his wound, smearing the gentle rivulets as she makes a hard turn to crassness.</p><p>“So many jokes to make. An arrow in my quiver. Hitting the bulls-eye. You know, I think I would enjoy that right about now.”</p><p>“Ye-yes mistress.” He paused a moment to get the crack in his voice under control. “Please.”</p><p>“Ah, we have come to the beginning portion of the evening. Yes, I think it’s time. Are you comfortable? I would like to give you a preview of what’s to come.”</p><p>“Yes, Mistress.You have bound me to perfection.” He still drips blood from the shallow cuts, now stinging in the open air.</p><p>She falls back on her knees, looking over the array of toys before them. She selects a dildo with a wide base and leans back, spreading her legs to reveal the wetness he knows is there, dark folds framed by silken, silver curls. She slides the cock along her slit, rubbing her clit with the head and then she slides it inside. It makes his mouth water. Her hand ghosts across her chest, toying with the buds of her nipples, one and then the other, gaze intent until she finds a rhythm. His pulse and his hands match her speed around his own cock, now throbbing, begging for release. She pushes the dildo deeper, spreads her folds wider so he sees flashes of tender pink deep inside. Head back, her moans flow freely, the first sign of building release. Fingers circle her clit, their cries of pleasure intermingled even as their bodies remain separate. He watches, hungry, and desperate, and helpless as pleasure and pain burn in his cock, trapped in his bound hands.</p><p>“Would—” she is panting now. “Would you like to see me come, Warden?”</p><p>He can only gasp the single cry— “Please!”</p><p>She squeezes her clit and gives the dildo one expert thrust before falling back into bliss, one lone moan, her horns catching on the bed behind her with a tearing sound as she spasms. A few more lazy thrusts and she sits up, blinking lazily at him. He admires that it takes her only moments to recover from a climax. Already has begun to lash rope around her hips, creating a harness of intricate knot-work that now straps the cock she’d just used flush to her sex. Now she stands, erect and ready to give him the attention his body craves.</p><p>He loses track—the evening becomes a dream. She pulls his hands from his cock and unties his wrists—ties them behind his back and tugs on the suspending ropes so his head and shoulders drop downward to the mattress in a controlled fall. A gentle touch with a crop and then a SLAP—the shock of new pain making the welts on his ass burn with fire, then another few in quick succession until she has his attention.</p><p>Fingers explore him, slicking lubricating oils from his stones and up the cleft of his ass. Finally she slides a finger against the pucker of his ass, teasing so he constricts in electric pleasure.</p><p>“Relax, my Warden,” she whispers, leaning over him so he feels her cock press up between his thighs, her breast crushed against his hands. He takes a deep breath, sagging into the ropes, letting her fingers work their way inside him, stretching so he begins to anticipate the delicious fullness.</p><p>The ropes have them at a height, and he can feel her lining up to mount him, rubbing the sensitive skin between his cock and his ass with the head of the dildo. With her next thrust, she enters him and they cry out together. Again the white flash of his vision like heat lighting, trembling on the edge of an orgasm that threatens to rock him into the Fade itself. He bellows, clenching around her cock and she whispers her reply: “Remember to beg.”</p><p>He begs and she denies him. She fills him with her full length, stretched to bursting and then withdraws to the tip, and entering again, finishing each thrust with a twist of her hips that hits the sweet spot deep inside of him every time.</p><p>He begs. Her hand closes around his cock, stroking until he can hardly breathe, choking on his cries. Oh he begs, and she denies him, and fucks him with such perfection that she brings him to the edge of climax again, and again, and only his will and her guidance keep him from spilling over. On his fourth, maybe the fifth approach to the edge of bliss, he feels a tug on the delicate ropes binding his stones and his cock tight. Their flesh slaps together, making sinful, delicious sounds and his ears roar with his blood.</p><p>The rope tugs, her hand strokes him in time with the thrusting of her cock, and she bites his ear, growling.</p><p>“Say please.”</p><p>“Mistress… ah—Please, I beg you. I will bear it forever if you ask, but please let me—”</p><p>“Come for me, Blackwall,” she whispers, her breath hot, tongue at his ear, teeth at his throat.</p><p>For an excruciating, terror-filled moment, he’s not sure he will be able to, the sensations of her body, their rhythm overwhelming even the urgency of pressure.</p><p>And then she strikes like a wildcat. A coordinate attack: she pulls the rope so it slackens around his member, blood flooding back so quickly he bellows. Simultaneously she withdraws her own cock, striking the sweet spot inside of him one last time before leaving him empty. The only constant is her hand on his shaft, pumping him with short, furious strokes.</p><p>Bereft of fullness and pressure, guided by the demanding pace she sets on his cock, he tips over the edge. The fall starts slow, a moment of weightlessness before release rushes up to meet him.</p><p>With one final bellow his seed arcs from his cock in heavy spurts. Pearly ropes of it of soak into the beautiful bedspread mingling with the blood from his chest and the tears from her horns. The orgasm seems unending, impossible that one climax could empty him thus. Clenching, releasing, cleaning again, aching for her to fill him up again, and knowing that he is at his limit, utterly spent.</p><p>She is whispering to him, sweet praises, how impressed she is, how well they have trained for this day together. She works swiftly, lowering him to the bed so he kneels on his full weight again. Unties him, each piece of rope carelessly coiled and tossed aside. His muscles ache as he stretches his limbs, started by his sudden freedom. She lays him down in her lap and pets his har, his beard, and he smells her arousal and his own mingling. He floats, all senses open wide, all reason gone from his head.</p><p>After a while she breaks his reverie and rises to wash her hands in a basin. She comes to him again with a mortar and pestle, and a damp cloth.</p><p>“Let me tend your wound, my brave Blackwall,” she says, her smile wide as the sky.</p><p>He yields to her touch, the sting of the cloth and the poultice she applies no longer erotic, just simple pain. And then it eases, and they lay there together until it dries, kissing softly and speaking little.</p><p>He sits up from her arms after a while and goes to clean himself at the basin, stark naked in the moonlight that has come to fill the chamber. He is covered in welts and weals from the arrow and the rope, and a clean cut down his sternum that will heal into a perfect scar.</p><p>He turns to her. “Mistress?”</p><p>She sits up and takes a bit of apple she is now finishing. “Call me Tani now, Blackwall. I am your Mistress only when you’re all bound up.”</p><p>“Forgive me m’lady…. Tani. Please, allow me to show you one last devotion.”</p><p>“What do you have in mind?”</p><p>“I wish to taste you, m’lady. Tani. Bring you bliss.”</p><p>She considers him a moment. “I would like that.”</p><p>A hunger sparks in his spent body at her permission, not for the apple in her hand, but for the wetness between her legs.</p><p>He crawls up the ruined bedspread, sparing a thought of regret for the fine linens before coming to rest between her powerful legs. She places his hands on her things and nods at him. He ducks his head, daring to plant a kiss. Another, and another and she slides down towards him and guides his mouth to her sex.</p><p>He moans, and his spent cock twitches. Her clit is soft now, but he feels it stiffen as he swipes it with his tongue. Her scent becomes his world, and he explores. Sucking, rolling his tongue, thrusting into her. She guides a hand up to palm her breasts and he moans into her, pressing his face deeper so she can feel his pleasure. Her thighs clench around his head until he grows dizzy. He sucks greedily at her clit, sliding his tongue under her hood until the nub pulses in his mouth.</p><p>With a growl, she lunges forward so he lands on his back with his face between her legs. She settles and begins to thrust against his willing tongue, pressed hard and flat. He finds his cock, and begins to stroke in time with her thrusts, and the world is reduced to the music of her cries and his moans. Her sex clenches, legs turning into a vice and she pulses under his tongue once, twice, three times and then shudders, pressing herself into his mouth gently. He eases, kisses her again, and again, until she slowly falls away to lay beside him.</p><p>His own need ebbs away without any more demand. Gratified. Her pleasure is all he wanted. He lets go of his cock and they touch each other absently until they both fade into soft and blissful slumber.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Target practice!”</p><p>The summer is in full force now, and Blackwall is in shirtsleeves. He keeps the collar carefully laced lest someone see his tender new scar.</p><p>Teni grins as she spots him setting up the bales of hay that have become part of their weekly routine. She’s wearing her ropes, as usual, sporting a longbow with Sera and Verric in tow.</p><p>“Can’t tempt you to take a few shots today, Hero?” Varric waved an unstrung bow at him.</p><p>“I prefer being the audience.”</p><p>“Suit yourself.”</p><p>Teni offered him a brief smile, and then the arches got to work. She is getting good, hitting the paper targets each time, scoring several bulls eyes each round. And after each, Blackwall clears the bales and brings the arrows back to the arches so they can begin again.</p><p>“Interesting scar you got there, Hero.” Varric leans on his longbow, grinning.</p><p>Blackwall’s heart lurches. “I have many scars. Care to be more specific?”</p><p>Varric waggles his eyebrows and points a finger to the sky. “You know, that one. With the point.”</p><p>Blackwall looks down to see his shirt open past his collar, revealing the raised line of the arrow.</p><p>Varric’s voice rolls over him, eyes piercing. “Looks like there’s a story there.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he grumbles.</p><p>Tani chuckles and licks her lips, watching him with an edge of hunger. Blackwall’s heart goes taught with anticipation, and dread. Perhaps he will be in her chambers again tonight, but soon he will make his flight to Val Royeaux.</p>
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